


I Can Dream, Can't I?

by dramady, edonyx



Category: Adam Lambert - Fandom, American Idol RPF, lambliff
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-23
Updated: 2010-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:17:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramady/pseuds/dramady, https://archiveofourown.org/users/edonyx/pseuds/edonyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary:</b> in 1949 Hollywood, life can be complicated. Adam Lambert, film star, finds this out when he gets involved with young musician Tommy Ratliff. <br/><b>Authors' Notes</b>: Title and lyrics below from the Andrews Sisters song.</p><p> </p><p><b>Disclaimer:</b> This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.</p><p><i>Can't I pretend that I'm locked in the bend of your embrace / For dreams are just like wine / And I am drunk with mine</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Dream, Can't I?

Kathleen Argeneau is a diva. Everyone in Shooting Star Studios knows this. There are those, too, who refuse to work with her. Adam Lambert finds he doesn't mind because they understand each other, he and Kat. They both have interests otherwise placed and are comfortable with knowing those secrets about each other.

So it's not surprising that Adam brings out Kat's best work. They've been called one of the great screen couples, actually, right there with Bogart and Bacall. It makes Adam laugh on his low days. He tamps out his cigarette and lets make up tend to his hair before he stands, adjusting the lapels of his dinner jacket, immaculate and white. "Tell me, Kat," he says, leaning into her ear. "What's her name tonight?"

"Cad!" And she trills out a laugh, slapping at his hand. "Incorrigible."

He laughs before going to his place for the next scene, adjusting his tie.

Tommy tugs one of his suspenders back up onto his shoulder and sweeps the floor just off from the set. Adam Lambert is an _incredible_ actor, the bee's knees, and Tommy would do just about anything for a chance to be in a movie with him. Kat Argeneau's nice enough when she's around Mr. Lambert, and even polite enough to Tommy, answering a couple of his questions about how to audition.

When the director starts calling for places, Tommy steps back to make sure he's not in the way, leaning against his broom handle to watch the interaction between Mr. Lambert and Miss Argeneau, the shared smiles, the way they laugh. They look intimate, and it makes Tommy feel jealous in that vague, wistful way. To wish for someone else's life. To be in Miss Argeneau's place.

Kat falls into his arms in a heap of tears as Adam draws her close, his chin tilted up toward the camera at the right angle. "You won't be alone again," he murmurs, his eyes closed. "Don't worry, darling. You'll never be alone, not again."

"Don't leave me," she sobs. "I couldn't bear it."

Really, the dialogue is so maudlin. Thank the heavens Adam can close his eyes as he does the scene. He knows the black and white film will accentuate his dark lashes, the dark of his hair against his pale skin.

"Never, darling. The war's over. I won't leave you again." And Kat's arms tighten around his neck; they turn so that the camera can see Kat's tear-stained face.

"And cut! Thank you one and all, that's a wrap for the day! Good work, everyone! Good work."

Adam pulls Kat to her feet and gooses her in the ribs before he lets her go. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Ms. Argeneau."

"I don't think that's possible, darling." Kat plants a game kiss on his lips and saunters away.

Tommy approaches Mr. Lambert with cigarettes and a lighter, offering them out. "Mr. Lambert, I was wondering if I could talk to you, maybe get some tips on how to get a big break, y'know? I'm working like the dickens around the studio, and Mr. Mayer won't even give me a glance." The powder girls flutter around Adam like little birds, touching up the shine on his nose, flicking invisible dust from his jacket, making sure his part is nice and straight, and Tommy falls behind to let them do their work.

All of the fuss is for a few still photographs taken in the adjoining studio and that is where Adam is headed, but he gestures for the young man to follow him, holding his hand out for a cigarette. "So, you want to be a movie star?" He asks, a small smirk turning up the corner of his mouth. Tommy is handsome, there's no doubt about that. But slight; a disadvantage in this business. Though, it's worth remembering that Bogart is about Tommy's height. Adam doesn't pass up an opportunity to rub that in.

A cigarette is put in Adam's fingers, and Tommy snaps the lighter open to hold the flame to the end. "Yes, sir. Not a _star_, but at least get a foot in the door. Were you a star right away? I'd imagine you were, with your talent and your looks, and I've seen all of your movies. I even auditoned to be an extra in 'A Night In Shanghai'. I didn't get the part." He's chattering with nerves, and an offer pops out before he can think about it. "I'm playin' at the Derby night after next, if you and Miss Argeneau would like to come. The hits, Glen Miller, Duke Ellington, Count Basie. Stuff you can really jive to." And then Tommy's face blushes bright.

"You're a musician, too." Adam leans in to light the cigarette, inhaling, then tilting his head to blow out the smoke. "What do you play, Mr. Ratliff." If Tommy is to become a star, Adam will recommend that he change his last name. Adam was a star right away; the camera loves him as do some of the directors. But they don't speak of that. "Saturday night, you say? My calendar might be open."

"I was a musician before starting here at the studio," Tommy admits, tucking a cigarette of his own - hand-rolled, not Silk Cuts like Adam's are - into the corner of his mouth to light it. "I play bass. The guys joke I'm barely tall enough to reach the pegs, but I do just fine." Now that Mr. Lambert's said he might come, Tommy's guts ball up into a tight knot. "Look, I'll letcha get to your shoot. Bet they're all waiting on you. Thanks for your time, Mr. Lambert."

"We hardly talked," Adam points out, amused. "Perhaps I'll see you Saturday, Tommy Ratliff. Thanks for the cigarette." And Adam tips his sleek head before turning to go to the adjoining studio. He might be able to get Brad or Cassidy, friends of his in fashion, to go with him for a night of drinks before going to one of the more backstreet clubs.

~*~

Tommy sits in a corner booth at The Sign of the Peacock, a cigarette smouldering in the ashtray in front of him, a pint of beer by his right hand. He doesn't come to these places for much more than the company itself, even thought the patrons have some sort of unspoken code that has them pairing up after a couple of drinks and heading off to other areas of the club. But Tommy feels comfortable here, like he's not about to be judged for something he's never even admitted out loud.

There's a murmur at the door when someone comes in. Then when Tommy sees who it is, he sees why. Adam Lambert has arrived and clearly he comes here regularly, greeting the host with a press of the hand and a buss of the cheek. He hails the bartender for a martini as he doffs his hat and shrugs off his coat, revealing a slimline dark suit that only serves to emphasize the white of his shirt and the blue of his eyes. Once his outerwear is taken from him, he leans against the bar, turning to look around the room. He upnods at familiar faces.

It makes Tommy shrink back into his seat, hoping desperately that the shadows will eat him, make him invisible, get him to a point where Mr. Lambert won't see him. They _work_ together, for god's sake, and this could cause a _scandal._ But Adam looks _handsome_, tall and sleek and confidently poised, and Tommy works on his cigarette, instead. That'll steady his nerves right quick. That, and polishing off his beer.

He's handed a martini and Adam takes it with thanks, leans up and begins to look for company. There's a predatory nature to the way he walks, slow, with a roll to his hips. It takes him a moment, but he does indeed see Tommy Ratliff. It's enough of a surprise that he stops where he's walking. Then a smile blooms across his features and he tips an imaginary hat when he takes two steps toward where Tommy sits. "Good evening, Mr. Ratliff."

Gulp. There goes Tommy's beer. "Mr. Lambert." Tommy finds a smile, there and gone, and gestures to the rest of the unoccupied booth. "Care to have a seat?" He'd thought without a doubt that Adam and Miss Argeneau were involved, but since he's here, that doesn't seem to be the case at all, and Tommy's not quite sure what to do with that information. "I'd offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you're set up already."

"Perhaps the second round. You look like you need another." As he raises his arm to catch the attention of a waiter, Adam steps closer still. "May I join you?"

"Of course," Tommy answers. "That- that's why I asked." There's a different light to this Adam than the one he sees at the studio most days. This one is dangerous, like he walks on fire and it doesn't touch him. "You, uh. Frequent the joint much? I come here so the girls don't bunny up to me, you know. And the beer is good." He runs an absent hand over his hair, making sure he looks his best without having a mirror to check himself in. "Please. I'd like it if you sat with me." Adam Lambert, heart throb. Which is exactly the sensation that Tommy's experiencing right this moment.

Sliding into the seat, Adam undoes the buttons of his double-breasted jacket and rests his arm on the top of the plush booth. "Needless to say, Mr. Ratliff, we don't speak of this outside of these walls." Being sure is never a bad idea. "I come here often enough. It's quiet, as you note. And discreet. There are ... needs," he adds, looking around the plush club. "That can't be met in other establishments."

"Not a word," Tommy promises. He picks up the faint scent of Adam's aftershave, something expensive, likely, but spicy and warm. "Never seen you here before, though." Giving away how often Tommy himself comes here, as well, if not for the action, then at least for the acceptance. "So you and Miss Argeneau aren't...?" Obviously. But there's no way the likes of Adam Lambert would be interested in a stagehand wannabe actor like Tommy Joe Ratliff.

That makes Adam laugh outright as he fishes his cigarette pack from his breast pocket. "No. We aren't." His gaze slides over to Tommy as if he might say more, but he doesn't, instead pinching a cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he goes for his lighter. "Kat isn't bad. She's a good friend to have if you want in the business. I'll say I haven't seen you here, either," he notes, when he does look back, eyes clearly tracking what of Tommy's body he can see. "I'd remember."

Tommy's quicker though, snapping his lighter out to catch the end of Adam's cigarette. "I come for a beer or two, then go home. I gotta work early most days, getting the studio ready, you know. Are you going to the wrap party when we're- when you're done with your movie?" There are always two, of course, the public one that the newspapers attend, getting pictures of the stars being starry, and the private one where the party _really_ is. Under Adam's gaze, Tommy straightens, showing off the line of his shoulders and how narrow the rest of him is.

Narrow and delectable. "Of course." Adam blows smoke toward the ceiling again then looks back at Tommy. "Tell me why you want to be in the pictures, Mr. Ratliff. It's not all glitz and glamor, you know." But then the kid who sweeps the lot knows that better than most, he supposes.

"I'd like to be able to tell a story." That's what he tells everyone who asks him that question though. "And... Mr. Lambert, I'm sure you'll understand this one. It'd be nice to be someone else, 'cause who I am isn't..." Tommy waves a hand, not knowing the right adjective to use. He looks at Adam steadily for the first time, and it makes him dampen his lips at how _gorgeous_ he is, beyond the realm of movie star or heart throb, or even handsome. "Do you enjoy being in the movies?" There's a shake to Tommy's voice that neither smoking nor his beer can hide.

"There's worse ways to make a living." Blowing a smoke ring into the air, it's a minute before Adam can meet Tommy's gaze. "I like most of it. But you say that you like to be someone else. It doesn't make problems go away. You know that too, right?" Without thinking too much about it, the star reaches over, urging a stray lock of hair back off Tommy Ratliff's forehead.

Tommy nods, watching Adam's mouth form smoke and words, both of them elegant. "It's just a way of gettin' by. I think this would be a lot easier if I wasn't looking it in the face every day, you know? Getting to live someone else's life, learn about them." Adam may not think much about brushing Tommy's hair back, and Tommy doesn't think at all when he leans into that simple touch.

"Such a sweet boy," Adam nearly croons, fingertips trailing along Tommy's jaw. "This is a hard town, Mr. Ratliff. It has little use for sweetness. I imagine even Kat Argeneau was like you before she became a leading lady. Don't tell her I said so, but you're ... far more attractive. I'll help you get an audition if you make me one promise."

Adam's touch makes Tommy's lashes flutter, and that's no way for a man to behave! But he wets his lips again and focuses his eyes on Adam's face. "I promise. Whatever you like. Not because I want the audition, but... I respect you. I admire you." And the fact that Adam Lambert makes Tommy's stomach feel like it's full of butterflies? That can go without saying.

"Remember who you are, Mr. Ratliff. It's easy to forget. So little around here is real. It's set pieces and pretend. When you find something real, hold onto it with both hands and that way, you have it." There's a tenor to Adam's words that give lie to how tightly he holds to his own advice. He brushes his thumb over Tommy's mouth and then pulls his hand away. "Should I go?"

"No, thank you." It comes out soft and automatic, and Tommy's teeth skid over his lower lip, where Adam's thumb had just passed. "When I watch the people here-" Men, they're all men, it's _that_ sort of club, indeed, "-sometimes they leave the bar. I've never seen the other parts of the club." This is as real as Tommy gets, as honest as he can be. "I never told anyone I was queer, before. I'll keep your secret if you keep mine."

"I wouldn't reveal you." There is a tinge of indignation around the edges of Adam's response. He does, then, though, look toward the back of the club. He knows what goes on there, very well. His eyes, when he turns back to Tommy, are a little sad, a little darker, too. "What would you like to know, Mr. Ratliff?"

"What they do. What it's like. How it feels." Tommy shrugs, unable to meet Adam's eyes. These aren't things that are spoken about out loud, and to tell Adam that he thinks about things that he doesn't even know about is embarrassing. At least he doesn't tell Adam that he thinks about them with _him._

There's a pause before Adam answers. One hand covers Tommy's as he snuffs out his cigarette with the other. "As much as I'd like to be the one to show you, perhaps it best that I'm not. At least not tonight." But his voice is soft, tone gentle. "Good night, Mr. Ratliff. Monday, at the studio, I'll introduce you to a few 'friends.'" And Adam then stands, leaving his martini glass on the table, half-empty. "Have a pleasant evening."

"Thank you," Tommy answers, not sure what exactly just happened. Mr. Lambert- the things he'd said. About being the one to show Tommy. He doesn't know what to do with that thought, and once Adam's gone, he polishes off the last of his beer and makes his own exit, stage right.

~*~

Saturday finds Tommy in front of the mirror in his tiny flat, combing his hair into place so it won't be mussed by the hat he puts on. This is his _good_ suit, charcoal with black pinstripes, a black shirt, a white tie. His shoes are polished and his spats are as clean as they can be. His bass is waiting at the Derby, along with the guys he plays with, and after tucking his watch and chain away, he makes his way there.

For the first set of songs, it doesn't appear that Adam is coming, though the crowd is appreciative, filling the dance floor for each number. But during the second set, there's a mild flurry of exclamations at the door before a figure comes clear of the crowd. Adam, flanked by two other men, both smaller, more slight, even. All are dressed in evening clothes, crisp black suits with white ties and top hats. Just past the bar, Adam looks to the stage and tips a real hat, this time, at the musicians, before turning, his friends trailing, to the bar for drinks.

Tommy's fairly certain his face is flaming red, but he can blame the hot lights that illuminate the stage for that. But he straightens his posture, making the most of the cut of the suit - shabby, in comparison to Adam's fine clothes - and plays with every ounce of himself. He wants to impress Mr. Lambert, give him a reason for coming down to the Derby to see Tommy play. He wants to make it worth his while.

"We're overdressed," Brad drawls as he picks up his martini, taking the olives to chew on one. "Even the band isn't togged to the bricks. Why _did_ you bring us here, Adam?"

"The music is good. Be quiet for once and enjoy it," Adam retorts, leaving Brad to whisper to Cassidy about how touchy Adam is, how he's in need of a little _relaxation_. Thankfully, he tells Cassidy, that they're going to the Red Light after this little stop. A waiter comes to take their hats and Adam smooths a hand over his hair as he stands. Even in the lowered lights, it's clear to see that he's watching Tommy.

There are five more songs before the band takes a break, and Tommy pulls his hanky out of his pocket to give his face a wipe before approaching Adam's table in little, hesitant steps. "Thank you for coming," he starts. "I can make sure the bartender keeps your drinks fresh. I hope you're having a good time? Enjoying the music?" The other two men that Adam's with are nothing short of intimidating, even moreso than Adam himself, in the way that Tommy can all but feel their disdain, like a cold wall, eyes running over him.

Ignoring the knowing glances exchanged between his friends, Adam gives Tommy a smile, gesturing to the other chair at their table. "I should be buying you a drink. You're very talented, Mr. Ratliff."

With a flash of a smile between expressions that seem very serious, Tommy sits down at Adam's table, making a gesture at the bartender for a fresh round for the four of them. "Thank you." And it comes out genuine, knowing that this is one thing he _is_ good at, that Adam's never seen him do. "I'm sure there are plenty of girls in here who'd like to be taken for a twirl by you, if you dance." For a moment, Tommy's eyes meet Adam's. This is their secret, and he's going to uphold his end.

Something flashes in Adam's eyes and there's a small smile there and gone as he seems to contemplate the idea. "Perhaps later," he finally says. He holds his first drink by the stem, fingers long and tapered, as he looks over at Tommy. "Tell me how long you've been a musician."

"I'm bored!" Brad declares, leaned back in his seat, arm over the back, legs crossed, foot tapping against the leg of the table. "I think we should go."

"Please don't," Tommy answers quickly, even though this man is one of Adam's friends, and can say what he likes. "I've been playing since I was a teenager," he says to Adam, instead. "I started with the guitar, and Cab Calloway and Duke Ellington really got me into the swing and big band. I started playing bass. There aren't many bands out there that use guitar." _Please don't leave,_ he thinks again, glancing at one of Adam's companions, then the other.

"Don't mind them, they have no manners," Adam says, shooting a withering glance at them both, ignoring Brad as he pushes back his chair, leaning nearly into Cassidy's lap to whisper in his ear. "And here you are," he tells Tommy, attention back there. "I've often thought of singing in a band, but ... haven't. Do you go back on soon?"

"Ten minutes or so. We get twenty-minute breaks between sets. This'll be our last one, six songs, and then I'm done for the night. Do you have plans after?" The one companion of Adam's, Tommy recognizes. Cassidy from wardrobe, though never dressed up quite like this. The other, the one who'd said he wanted to leave and is now talking to Cassidy in hushed, grinning tones, Tommy doesn't recognize at all. "I'd like to hear you sing sometime, Mr. Lambert."

In answer, Adam merely cocks his head, taking a sip of his first drink, draining it before he starts on the other.

When Tommy finishes his second set, Adam is alone at his table, having seen Brad and Cassidy off to somewhere else. He also danced, once, with a woman who wouldn't take no for an answer. As Tommy returns to his table, Adam smiles, though. "You clearly enjoy playing. It's enjoyable to watch you play."

Tommy takes his fedora off and sets it on the table, wiping the sweat from his face again. "Thank you. You dance a mean Lindy, that's for sure. Good enough to beat the band. Your friends decided this wasn't their type of hop?" Tommy finds a smile of his own, when Adam's smile is just so slightly different than the ones he sees on set, or in front of a photographer's flash. It's warmer, maybe. More personal. "I'm glad you came. What're your plans for the rest of the evening?"

"I was originally going to go to a ... a club. With Brad and Cassidy, but ... " Adam gives a rueful laugh. "Brad gets impatient. And rude. I'm sorry if he offended you. But because of that, my evening is suddenly ... without plans." He looks Tommy over, discreetly of course. "What are your plans, Mr. Ratliff?"

A club. Tommy knows exactly what kind of club Adam might mean. "Call me Tommy," he corrects. "Mr. Ratliff is my father. I'm going to top off my suds, drink 'em down, pack up, go home. Catch a shower, see what's on the radio. Not a very exciting life." Not like the one Adam may have, being a movie star of his calibre. "My place is small, but it's neat enough. Care to come over for a game of cards?"

"Ah... thank you, but no." It would be far from appropriate. Disappointment flashes over Adam's face for a moment. Silly, he realizes. He finishes his drink and pushes back from the table. "Thank you, though, M - Tommy. It was fun." He'll go to the the club, perhaps, after all, though, for some reason, he feels lonelier than when he arrived.

And that's what Tommy asks, off the cuff. "Are you going to the club? Could- would it be too much to ask to-" He bites down on his lower lip to dam back the rest of his words, in case Adam takes offense at Tommy's brazen almost-request.

Something catches in Adam's chest and he looks away to hide whatever flush might be coloring his cheeks. "... are you sure?" he asks, not looking over at Tommy.

"If you wouldn't mind having a drink with a stagehand from the studio." One side of Tommy's mouth tips up in a smile. "I think it'd be pretty swell to have a drink with you in private. If you'll have me." He drags out his wallet to pay for his beer, and for Adam's martini. "I'll have to meet you there, though. I'd like to get home and clean up, change into something clean. And put my bass away." He's high-strung nervous, part of him absolutely dead sure that Adam'll scoff, or that he'll change his mind.

"We shouldn't go together, anyway," Adam reminds him. "You know where the club is," he adds. "I'll meet you there, then. In an hour?" He's already standing, gesturing for his hat, successfully hiding the butterflies in his stomach, his face clear.

"An hour," Tommy promises, and tips back the last of his beer and pushes back from the table as well. He puts his hat back on, tipping the brim at Adam, and makes toward the stage to put his bass away.

An hour later has Tommy walking through the doors of The Red Light, another club that caters to those birds of a different feather. Sure enough, he spots Adam sipping another martini at the bar, and approaches. "Fancy meeting you here." Since it was predetermined, there's a little more confidence in Tommy's walk, in his smile, and he leans against the bar, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

"Ah, Mr. Ratliff," Adam answers, a smirk curling up one side of his mouth around his own cigarette. "Can I buy you a drink?" He's more relaxed in this environment. Not that the club hasn't been shut down a few times; it has. But he knows it's safe, until it isn't. "And we can sit."

"Just a Cola for me, I've had enough beer for the night." Tommy's changed into a short-sleeved black and white shirt and undershirt and neat, straight black pants, exchanging the pinstripe fedora that matched his suit to one that's beige and casual. "I have to admit, though... I never expected to be _with_ you here. I never expected that you were... you know. In the first place." He crushes his cigarette out in the ashtray. "I'll find us a table."

"We're all full of surprises, you'll find, Tommy," Adam tells him. He waits until he gets the drinks, then he follows the path to the table and sets the glasses down, the sits, too. His tie is loosened, shirt unbuttoned, revealing some of his skin along his collarbones. "So what about you would surprise me?"

"I went to Julliard," Tommy admits softly. That's as far as he goes, though, lighting up another cigarette and leaning back in his seat to listen to the music. It's low-key here, smooth and jazzy, mostly brass. Very classy. "I thought I'd be a musician. But I'd love to act." His gaze skims along that little bit of exposed skin, then down to his Cola, and he lifts the glass to take a sip.

Taking the hat from Tommy's head, Adam puts it on his own, cocking it at a rakish angle, his chin up so that he can grin as if having his photograph taken as he snuffs out his cigarette butt. "Julliard. Impressive, sir."

"Most people don't believe me, so I just stop telling 'em," Tommy smiles, then cocks his head to admire Adam in his hat. "I think if they put you in sackcloth, you'd look charming, still. How long have you been in Hollywood?" He knows what the papers print, the bios, and knows just how much of them are fabricated, barely speckled with the real truth.

"I grew up here, actually," Adam admits, running his fingers along the brim of the hat; it's a great hat. "Not far from here; San Diego. Perhaps it was meant to be. Stardom in the air. I think it's quite pretty amazing that you went to Julliard. That's ... really remarkable."

Tommy waves a hand and takes his hat back, settling it over his hair again. "I'm from Burbank, myself. Started playing music when I was a kid, and my mother wanted me to do something that I was good at, to _be_ good at it. So I went to New York when I was nineteen, got schooled, came back." He toys with his glass for a moment before lighting another cigarette, breathing out a plume of soft, silver smoke. "And then discovered that I'd rather act." Tommy stretches his legs out under the table, bumping one of Adam's feet with his own.

Adam doesn't move his feet away, either. The tentativeness of the last few meetings, even earlier in the evening, is slipping away with his drinks and a knowledge that Tommy seems clearly aware of what he wants, here in a safe environment. "I meant it when I said that I'd introduce you 'round, Tommy." And he holds up his drink. "To dreams."

"To dreams," Tommy echoes softly, and takes a long drink of his Cola. "It took me a long time to muster up the nerve to talk to you, you know," he starts, setting his drink down on the table, looking at the way the glass sweats beads of water. "I don't know if I want to be introduced 'round. Not here, anyway. I'm here because... well. Now, I'm here because of you." He raises his eyes to Adam's, and there's frank honesty there that he can't put words to.

"I didn't mean here," Adam said quickly. "For your desire to act." No, Adam has no desire to share Tommy as it is. There's something about the other man that makes him feel protective. Especially when he says something like _I'm here because of you_.When their eyes meet, he sets his drink down and reaches over to take Tommy's hand. "It's a difficult world we live in," he says, feeling the warm palm in his.

"I'm alright with not mentioning it. It's... what a person does behind closed doors is their business." Tommy's eyes drop back down to the cigarette that's sitting in the ashtray, and turns his hand into Adam's. "It's just hard _wanting_ something and not knowing how to get it. Like acting, or... like..." He clears his throat. "Being here with you. And wanting."

The intent of Tommy's words makes Adam feel quite literally hot under his collar, desire making his back feel tight. Under his fingers he can feel the other man's pulse, light and fast, and he looks at their hands rather than Tommy's face. "I can ... show you around. If you'd like."

The intent of _Adam's_ words makes Tommy's stomach drop. "I'd like that," he husks out, his mouth feeling very, very dry, suddenly. A drag on his cigarette is followed by polishing off his Cola, and Tommy straightens his shoulders. It's hard to believe that an hour ago, he'd been packing up after playing his Saturday night delight at the Derby, and now he's here with the promise of things he's only ever thought about.

Adam pushes his chair back and stands up, Tommy's hand falling from his when he rises. He adjust his lapels and straightens his jacket before giving Tommy a smile that perhaps Tommy's only seen on camera, then he turns, assuming the other man would follow.

It's a brilliant smile, and Tommy stands to follow, absolutely. Where they're going to go, he has no idea. It's these parts of the bar that he's familiar with, the _bar_ parts, where he can sit and watch and drink, and then go home, comfortable for a little while in his own skin. Tommy watches the line of Adam's shoulders, broad and square beneath his jacket, and can only wonder what the skin beneath might look like. That he's actually going to _see_ it is beyond what he can imagine, though.

Behind a door that could be barred and locked is a hallway carpeted and quiet lined with doorways. Even with Gore Vidal and the Kinsey report, discretion is the name of the game. The rooms that are occupied have ties looped around them. The one on the end is empty and Adam opens it, standing aside to let Tommy see a small room, plain, small bed, small table with an ashtray on it and a book of matches. It's finally then that Adam looks up to meet Tommy's eyes.

It feels like Tommy's heart is beating in his ears as he turns and steps toward Adam again, letting the door shut behind them. "This is what I've wanted to do. Since... since the first movie I saw you in." He gets up on his toes, hands cradling the sides of Adam's jaw, and Tommy kisses him, soft and warm, lips just barely parted.

At first, Adam holds Tommy's elbows, letting the smaller man lead the kiss. But the kiss sparks something he wasn't expecting in him and those hands slide from Tommy's waist, pulling him closer, tucked against him. They need to put a tie on the door and he finally remembers to use one hand to pull on his own, his mouth not leaving Tommy's.

Adam's mouth isn't like any other mouth that Tommy's kissed, before. Yes, he's had ladyfriends, played the part, done what he thought he should be doing, but this is _different._ Adam's mouth is soft but so distinctly masculine, and his hands feel skin that's smooth in one direction and just barely prickly in the other. A man's skin. His own hands drop when he realizes what Adam's doing, helping him lift the tie over his head. And then Tommy falls back a step, then another, face flushed, unsure of where to go from here, or how to get there.

Touching Tommy's chin, Adam gives him a small smile before he goes to the door only opening it enough to slide his tie over the knob. Then it's shut again and he sets aside Tommy's hat on the small chair there. His eyes are on Tommy's face as he slides off his jacket. When it's thrown over the chair, he reaches out for Tommy to come closer again.

Tommy does as he's told, even if it's in gestures and looks, and tips his chin up, lips half-parted, skin feeling too hot, too tight, and his fingers, steady and knowing on the neck of his bass, shake just the slightest bit as he picks open the buttons on Adam's shirt, not showing off any more skin than what he can see in the slight part between the fabric. "I know what we're supposed to do," he says, haltingly. "I just don't know quite how to do it with... with another man."

"I'll show you," Adam tells him, and he covers Tommy's hand with his, pulling his shirt from his trousers, revealing a white undershirt. He works to undo his cufflinks before letting his sleeves slide down his arms so he can catch his shirt to toss it, too, over the chair. "Just ... touch me. Touch me however you'd like."

His fingertips are tough with callouses, from hard work and playing music, but Tommy's touch is deceptively light on the bare skin that he sees. His brows furrow together as if thinking about where his touch will move to next, and it's to the hem of Adam's undershirt, pulling it up over his head. Now that Adam's bare to the waist, all warm, freckled skin, Tommy's hands drop to his belt, stopping there for a long moment before skidding the backs of his knuckles against what he knows is beneath Adam's zipper, listening to how Adam's breath catches.

But Adam keeps his hands at his sides, letting Tommy find his way toward comfort. He watches, though, the gleam of soft light on the blond of Tommy's hair, on the cut of his shoulders. Adam is hard and he _wants_.

Comfort goes hand in hand with courage, and it takes a _lot_ of it for Tommy to turn his hand so that hardness is pressed into his palm. The feel of it makes Tommy's eyes flutter closed, and even in the dark behind his eyelids, he slides his hand up, flipping Adam's belt open and working on the fastenings of his pants. His own shirt hangs tails-out from his pants, hiding his own erection, and for now, that's just fine. He needs to get used to Adam before anything else can go on. Tommy's tongue comes out to wet his lips, a dart of pink, and he whispers, "Would you take them off?"

"Yes." Adam's voice is low, too, in pitch and volume and he lets his trousers fall and he steps out of them, bending to remove his socks and those suspenders. All of it gets put aside and Adam stands, then, naked, in the small room, his hands still at his side, his cock hard, jutting from his body.

Tommy has to open his eyes and see Adam like this, and it makes colour burn brightly in his cheeks and on the tips of his ears. The only audible sound he makes is the pull of breath, and there's that steeling of will again, preparing himself for this, before he strokes his fingertips down Adam's cock, light enough to just be a pet. Tentative, nervous, thumb brushing against the head and the ridge beneath. "I've thought about this with you," he admits softly, looking up into those blue eyes. "I just never though it'd happen."

When he answers, Adam's voice is soft and it quavers. "I ... it's happening." Finally, he reaches up, his fingers carding through Tommy's hair, down the column of his neck to his shoulder. "I'd rather not be alone in being naked. When you feel like it."

Adam's answer is a nod, and Tommy takes a step back to unbutton his shirt, strip it and the undershirt beneath it off, and Adam gets a flash-glance before Tommy works on his pants, letting them fall to his ankles, kicked off, joined by shorts and socks and shoes that are stepped out of. "There." Then he reaches for Adam again, his touch a little more confident, keeping his eyes on his fingers instead of what his fingers are touching. "I think maybe... that we should kiss again?"

That's an idea that Adam can fully support. He collects Tommy into his arms again and tips his chin down to kiss him. From knee to shoulder, they are pressed together when their mouths meet. This time, his kiss is a few degrees more hungry, a hand sliding down Tommy's back to then cup a buttock. He feels _good_. Like something Adam didn't know he'd been missing.

Tommy gasps against Adam's mouth, a shudder running down his back. This is what was missing when he'd been with ladies. This _desire_, this _want._ This clawing need that jumps through him faster than he can even realize. It takes little effort and no thought at all to get up on his toes, so their hips are pressed squarely together. It sends a spike that's huge and hot through him and he groans.

The sound urges Adam into action, walking Tommy back to the small bed and gently lying him down before kneeling over him. "I'm going to touch you and kiss you," he tells him. "I will stop if you tell me to stop or to wait. I want to make it good for you." Kisses then, are pressed along Tommy's jaw and down his neck.

The bob of Tommy's head shows he understands, but his Adam's apple goes up and down as he swallows and tries to steady his breath. Adam's kisses are ticklish and excruciating, making him hum low in his throat as his hands move of their own volition, up to Adam's hair and planing down his back, and down further to rest on the outside of Adam's thigh. He's so hard that it feels like his cock has a pulse of its own, but Tommy's afraid to ask Adam to touch. Adam's already said that he will, and Tommy can wait. Maybe.

When Tommy musses Adam's hair, it falls in chunks into Adam's face, tickling at Tommy's chest as Adam moves lower, spending a bit of time teasing Tommy's nipples to points that he can flick with his tongue, loving how he can see the goosebumps form on Tommy's skin. He doesn't touch the other man's cock, though, not yet.

It has Tommy breathing in tiny little gasps, eyes closed and head thrown back, unable to watch what's making him feel fevered under his skin. Already, it's better than he'd imagined, when he'd be alone at home in the dark, one hand over his eyes and the other around his cock, clenching his teeth to keep from making any sound. "Oh," he whispers, heels digging into the bed to keep from lifting his hips, his desire tight to the point of aching.

"It's all right," Adam soothes, leaning up to kiss his mouth. "If you like that ... " And he doesn't speak again, letting his stubbly chin drag over the hollow of Tommy's stomach before he stops, poised over Tommy's cock. "I'm going to put my mouth on you now," he says, taking one of Tommy's hands to squeeze it. Then he mouths along the length of Tommy's cock.

Tommy shudders out a tight sound. No one's done this to him, not a woman, and obviously, never a man. His fingers snap tight into Adam's as his cock jerks from just those first humid, open touches of mouth to skin, and his other hand comes up to cover his eyes. It's the shame he's lived with for as long as he's realized he's queer, knowing the danger behind this realization. But Adam's mouth- "So good." Spoken to the air, the ceiling. The walls. Adam, himself. "I never. I didn't know."

He has no reason to be ashamed, even if their society seems to think he does. Adam gives Tommy a smile before he holds his cock at the base and takes it into his mouth, tongue swirling as he goes, intent on giving Tommy as much pleasure as he can. After a moment, he starts to bob his head, teeth tucked behind his lips as he sucks.

This is the first time that Tommy's sworn in front of Adam, and the first time he's sworn in front of someone in a long time. "Oh... oh _fuck._" The heat that seems almost unbearable to begin with jumps exponentially, and his hands fist in the covers of the small bed, at his hips. He wants to look, wants to _watch_, and his thighs come apart so he can brace his weight on an elbow and look down. To see Adam Lambert, heart throb of the silver screen, with his mouth around Tommy's cock. "Nnh-" A low, helpless sound as he feels himself jerk against Adam's tongue. So soon. _Too_ soon.

It's not surprising that Tommy comes so quickly. Adam strokes him through it, sucking and swallowing the expulsions, waiting until Tommy's limp and shivering before he raises his head. Then he can use his hand to wipe at his mouth as he smiles. "You taste good."

What should Tommy say to that? He feels shuddery and brainless, and decides that thought no longer belongs here, that he can't be ashamed of what Adam seems to be so comfortable with, here. Still panting, Tommy swipes the pad of his thumb against Adam's lower lip, whispering something like _thank you_, unable to look away from that mouth. "What... what do I do for you? The same?"

"If you'd like. Or ... " Adam lies on his side next to Tommy's, his hip pressed to Tommy's, cock still hard, red. "Just touch me." He guides one of Tommy's hands to his skin, hissing at the touch as he guides the stroke. "This is a good start, I think."

Tommy can do touching. Definitely. It's something he knows, at least, from touching himself, and he strokes Adam like he does himself, slow, with a twist of wrist near the tip. Heat comes to life again in him from Adam's reactions, but it'll be a few minutes at least before he's hard again. There's a little bit of moving around until they're face to face, and Tommy presses soft, breathy kisses to Adam's mouth as his hand moves.

He breathes in Adam's sighs, the hitches in his breath that comes from those touches. Adam's kisses grow more biting the closer he is to coming. But he's quiet, nearly silent, borne of experience.

A few moments later, when his orgasm overtakes him, he presses his mouth to Tommy's neck, muffling his groan as slickness paints itself over Tommy's hand and stomach.

"Oh," Tommy whispers again, against Adam's jaw. "You just." When it had happened to Tommy, Adam had tasted it, it had been in his _mouth_, so it can't be bad, right? It gives him the courage to lift his hand to drag his tongue over his fingers. Oh. It- it doesn't taste very good, but it tastes _sexual_, at the same time, and the first lick leaves Tommy wanting the taste of Adam's mouth, instead.

"I did." And Adam chases what Tommy is doing with a kiss, unaware he's giving Tommy what he wants, because it's what he wants as well. "You are ... you are a handsome man, Tommy Ratliff," he whispers. "And a charming one." Were things different, he would invite Tommy to his home. Perhaps soon. Perhaps.

"I certainly charmed the pants off of you, to coin a phrase." Here, they're on the same level, Tommy realizes. It isn't a case of movie star and stage hand; they are both here because they wanted the same thing. "I've been charmed by you for a long time, Adam." He fits his thigh between both of Adam's, deepening the kiss. The want is there where the practice isn't, but Tommy tries anyway, to make it the best kiss he can muster.

It's a fine kiss. Adam holds Tommy's face, changing the angle just slightly, licking at Tommy's tongue with his own in the back room of the Red Light. It is late when they finally part, hands touching one last time before they duck out, separately, into the night.

~*~

Monday comes and true to his word, Adam introduces Tommy to the movie's producers before he goes into make-up. There is nothing in his presentation to give away that they were intimate; it's a learned skill. But, before he leaves Tommy to make his case, there is a flicker of something behind his eyes, just for Tommy.

All Tommy does is thank Adam - Mr. Lambert - politely, and then does his _very_ best to impress the producers. If Mr. Lambert believes that Tommy Ratliff has talent, then there's a good chance that he does. They want him to change his name. They want to change his look. They want to put him in musicals because he can actually _play_ instruments, and can sing decently. It's a lot to take in, and once again, even without telling Adam, Tommy finds himself at the Red Light, nursing a pint of beer, a cigarette trailing up a silver line of smoke from the ashtray.

"I wondered if I would find you here," Adam says from over Tommy's shoulder. "I heard it went well." Coming around, he stands by the other chair. "Might I join you?"

At the sound of Adam's voice, Tommy jumps, but it's only out of the suddenness of it rather than actual surprise. "It did," he answers, gesturing for Adam to sit. "They want me to pretty much have this leopard change its spots, and I'm not sure how to feel about that. My name, how I dress, how I talk. And they want to put me in musicals." After what happened the last time they were here, Tommy can raise an eyebrow, smiling. "What brings you here tonight, Mr. Lambert?"

"Actually, Mr. Ratliff - or whatever you might call yourself," Adam teases. "I came looking for you." He takes the seat and slides into it, crossing one leg over the other and pulling his own cigarette case out of his jacket pocket to tap one out. "You sound ... less than pleased," he notes as he asks in a gesture to use Tommy's lighter.

Tommy lights Adam's cigarette in a flick and a flourish, then pockets the lighter again. "Is Adam Lambert your real name? They said that 'Ratliff' didn't sound very becoming of a future actor." He knows Adam's teasing, but the idea of having a name that isn't the one he was born with feels very strange. Maybe this is what Adam talked about, with Hollywood being so fake. Beneath the table, he touches his ankle against Adam's leg.

"It doesn't," Adam agrees gently, keeping his leg where it is. "I got lucky. It is my real name, but they wanted me to go by my middle name. Mitch Lambert." And Adam laughs. "I finally convinced them that I wasn't quite capable of carrying off 'Mitch.' And I'm glad after the Williams play came out, not to be saddled with that name." The milquetoast erstwhile lover in _Streetcar_ wasn't his type at all.

Tommy laughs at the very idea of 'Mitch Lambert', and mimes yelling _Stella!_ before breaking into genuine laughter. "No, you're Adam Lambert, through and through. I'm nervous, though. I don't know what kind of impression I'm going to make. Or if I'm even going to be any good. I see how good _you_ are, and it's intimidating. I'm not going to be the actor that you are." His foot moves, just a little, a hidden caress of sorts, both beer and cigarette forgotten in the face of something much better.

"How do you know?" Adam asks, his own foot moving. "How can you be so sure, until you try?" His cigarette pinched between his fore- and middle fingers, he draws patterns on the back of Tommy's hand. "Just do the best you can, Tommy. What's the worst that can happen?"

"I can fall flat on my face," Tommy answers. "Or they can try and teach me to dance and I'm awful at it, and they shun me from being in front of a camera ever again." There's something about the set of his mouth and the sparkle in his eye that tells he's joking, and it's a sure fire change from the Tommy who'd been so hesitant about talking to Adam in the first place, not so long ago. Tommy catches Adam's wrist in his hand, bringing the cigarette up to his lips to take a pull on it, exhaling slowly. But that's as far as his courage goes for now, when there are still so many eyes around to see.

When he pulls his hand back, Adam brushes along Tommy's lower lip with his thumb. "I can teach you some of that," he says, referring both to dancing and to other, more private things. "I am doubting you will fall on your face," he adds. "You're a smart man and a hard worker."

"A regular Fred Astaire." The urge is there to lick his tongue against Adam's thumb, but Tommy's sore lack of experience makes any sort of confidence falter. "I don't know that I'd like to have dance lessons here at the club, though. Maybe in one of the rooms...?" But it's obvious what the rooms are actually used for, and a flush creeps out of the neck of Tommy's shirt.

The suggestion is cute. It makes Adam smile. He stubs out his cigarette and moves to stand. "It's all in the movement of the hips," he offers, his own expression wry. "I'll show you." Already, this time, he's loosening his tie so that he can hang it over the doorknob.

In the room, he steps closer to Tommy, taking one arm and guiding to his own shoulder, before taking Tommy's hand in his and starting to dance. This isn't why either of them is there, but it gives him a chance to look at Tommy. "What would be your new name?"

"Thomas Joseph. It's my middle name, like they wanted to call you Mitch Lambert. But they said it's a little softer than 'Ratliff', with the 'rat' in it, I'm guessing." Tommy watches his feet, trying to follow Adam's motions, and trying even harder not to step on his toes. It's all in the movement of the hips, Adam had said, and the double-meaning of that and being in this room is completely lost on Tommy. For now.

"Thomas Joseph. I like it." As they ease into the movements, Adam pulls Tommy closer. "Very ... dignified." The hand that had been splayed between Tommy's shoulderblades slides down into the small of his back. "Relax into the movements. They're natural if you let them be."

"At least, really, it's still my name. It feels strange to think of myself that way. I heard that Joan Crawford's real name is something like Lucille." The press of Adam's hand has Tommy moving closer, but then he can't see his feet. Relax into it; Tommy does, letting the motions of Adam's hands and hips give him rhythm. It doesn't take very long, though, to realize that there's something else between them, more from Adam's hips than from dancing.

The tenor of the room changes, slowly. They aren't dancing to music, after all, but to the feel of each other's body and gradually that slows and heats. Adam tips Tommy's chin up, finding his mouth with his own for kisses that are gentle and exploratory, tasting and reacquainting.

There's something inherently intimate about being kissed like this, where Tommy _isn't_ the one going after it. He's holding the passive role, letting Adam lead as much here as he'd done with dancing. One hand stays in Adam's, while the other that had been on his shoulder palms the side of his neck, lips coming apart in a way that feels entirely, excitingly natural.

Clothes are peeled away and tossed aside again, jumbled together on a chair as Adam lays Tommy out on the bed again, letting his hips be cradled between Tommy's legs. He moves, hip-to-hip, letting friction ramp up their arousal as he kisses along his neck again, a hand on Tommy's hip, urging his leg higher.

Maybe this is the way two men have sex, Tommy thinks. Maybe it's not how he'd imagined it, at all. Between them, their cocks are side by side, and all he can do is hold himself up to the way Adam moves, each stroke of his hips spinning Tommy higher and higher. He guides Adam's mouth back to his, kisses hot and open now with the sharp edge of passion behind them, and Tommy's fingertips dig into the backs of Adam's shoulder. "Oh, _oh_," Tommy pants, head thrown back against the pillow again.

Not wanting to push Tommy too far too fast, Adam just keeps doing that, rocking his hips, changing the angle just _slightly_ so that it's unavoidable, the pleasure. He licks along Tommy's lip, sucking on his tongue. There is so _much_ to do. To learn. So much. And it all feels so _good_.

Tommy's sounds are easily stifled by Adam's mouth, and Adam can feel the way his body tightens with every movement until he can barely stand it anymore. "Adam," he gasps, the last letter in Adam's name turning into a kiss. Then another, and a third, and what Tommy means to be a warning comes out as a rich compliment instead as he lets go, as he comes, making the space between them hot and slick.

The sound Adam makes is nearly a groan, too, and he lets that sticky slickness smooth his way as he thrusts hard enough to draw his own orgasm out of himself before he slows. Tommy's chest is a mess and with a sultry grin, Adam bends down to start licking him clean, using one hand to swipe his fingers through it, wiping it on Tommy's mouth.

There's something completely surreal about this whole experience, as strange and amazing as The Persistence of Memory, and his primary reaction to Adam touching his mouth is to lick his lips, and he tastes the salt and bitter of come, not knowing if it's his own, or Adam's, or a combination of both. Adam's tongue, on the other hand, makes Tommy shiver and smile, both ticklish and still aroused, at least in his head. His body'll catch up again, he knows this. "What else, though?" Tommy asks, stroking a palm over Adam's hair. "Tell me what else we can do."

"Tell you?" Adam answers, smiling, tracing along Tommy's ribs. "Or would you rather I show you. We can go away this weekend, you and I. To Palm Springs. A hideaway I know there. Shall we?" With the offer, he leans up to kiss Tommy again.

There's a moment of silence while Tommy tries to think of what to say, how _thank you_ and _really?_ aren't quite enough, and it's a good thing Adam kisses him during that silence. When Tommy pulls away to look into Adam's face, he doesn't see a movie star, a heart throb, someone who wears a role while filming and a veneer of lies in the public eye. He sees _Adam,_ and realizes with something mixed like horror and chagrin, that perhaps he's falling in love with him. Tommy nods. Yes, Palm Springs.

~*~

The Buick Super handles the highways superbly and with the top down, both Adam and Tommy can feel the sun on their face and shoulders. There's no point to a hat. Adam's smile is wide as he glances over at Tommy from behind his sunglasses. Once they're out of town, he reaches over, resting his hand on Tommy's thigh as they he drives. For a few days, they are _free_.

Adam's car is downright sumptuous in comparison to Tommy's own, with long bench seating that has him sitting close to Adam so he doesn't have to reach far to touch. It's called a Super for a reason, and he's sure that the studio's paid for this car for their top star. "This is class," he murmurs in Adam's ear. "I can't believe I'm here with you. The boys in the band had an earful to give me when I told them I wouldn't be playing this weekend. They think I've got a new ladyfriend." Which isn't that far from the truth, barring gender.

"They do, do they?" It's easy, then, for Adam to put his arm around Tommy's slight shoulders. "And what did you tell them? Perhaps it's best to let them think that, mm?" But it's not worth thought. He goes on. "The resort in Palm Springs is owned by a friend of mine. He promised us a luxe suite with a mountain view."

"I told them I did meet someone special." It's Tommy's turn to rest his hand on Adam's thigh, closer to the knee than to the hip, and lets the wind blow the style out of his hair. Palm Springs, where it's private, where he and Adam are going to be _alone_. In a luxe suite with a mountain view. "I can't wait to get there." To a place that has style beyond what Tommy's used to. With an honest lover.

The ceiling fan whirs the air gently as the valet sets down their valises. He's tipped well and dismissed. They are alone and Adam smiles as he again reaches for Tommy. "We can do anything we'd like," he says, kissing the words into his lover's mouth. "Tell me what you'd like."

"I don't know," Tommy answers honestly. His hands find their places on Adam's body where they fit best: on the back of Adam's neck and on his ribs. There are _so many_ ideas that he can't choose one right away. The temptation's too much to look at, wholly. "I'd like..." Blush kisses the bridge of Tommy's nose, his cheeks, the tips of his ears, and he finds that his fingers are unbuttoning Adam's shirt. "To be naked with you. I want to know the most intimate thing there is to do."

"There are things I need from my bag, then," Adam tells Tommy after one more kiss, then he fetches those things, setting them on the bedside table. He can urge his lover to the wide, plush bed again, peeling his clothes off his body and letting them puddle on the floor.

Tommy is laid down on the covers and Adam lies next to him, hand skating down his stomach, covering his cock and stroking him to full hardness. "To be inside you," he whispers, "I need to prepare you. All right?"

Tommy is a _man_, and he shouldn't be so nervous about this. He knows what sex entails, and if Adam says that preparation is needed, well. This is what Tommy wants. So he nods, watching Adam's face instead of his hands. Hands that know how to touch him already to make him hum in his chest and sigh out breath. "What can I do? How do I help?" His fingertips feather against Adam's jaw, bringing him in for a hesitant, warm, one-two of a kiss.

"Lie there and remember to breathe. Know that it will feel so _good_, when it's time." Adam's kisses grow hungrier as he slicks his fingers and begins to work Tommy open, slowly and carefully.

It's easier said than done. At points, Tommy forgets, and holds his breath until he's nearly dizzy before remembering to exhale. And even then, it's in short little gasps, heels skidding restlessly against the covers, knees falling to the sides and then jerking up, as if wanting to come together, to block Adam out. At one point, though, Adam curls his wrist and Tommy's hips jump off the bed, arching him briefly from heels to shoulders. "Oh. Oh my god."

"I promised," Adam whispers, his smile against Tommy's neck. And he does it again, feeling Tommy's body begin to welcome him in. Gradually, his fingers move more easily, sliding in and out and he can then rub lubricant on his own cock in preparation. "You're nearly ready."

Tommy can only breathe in, long and slow, and hold it before letting it out again. He can't talk, he doesn't have the words to say how this feels. But he can nod, feeling a throb that's not only the stiff jut of his cock, but further back, where Adam's fingers are. Ready. He's almost ready. This is the reality of all those vague daydreams he's had about Adam. This is _it._

When he can easily slide his fingers in and out, Adam lies over Tommy's body and pushes himself in as slowly as he can bear to. He tugs on Tommy's lower lip with his teeth as distraction, even though he's already breathing hard. "You're remarkable," he whispers, voice high and tight.

There's nothing Tommy can say to that, when he's feeling tight and _hot_ and trying to kiss away any level of discomfort he's feeling, his body moving in ways that he can't rationally understand. Up, into the press of Adam's cock into him, thinking that maybe if he does this, the sensation will shatter into something amazing, that Adam promised. When Tommy pulls away to breathe, he looks up at Adam, into those clear blue eyes where his own are dark and hazy and unfocused; maybe this is a dream. But the fantasies he's held secret for Adam are actually happening.

"Breathe," Adam urges. He's resting his weight on his elbows and his hand cards through Tommy's hair. "Breathe, lover." He rocks his hips in again, into that wickedly tight heat that clenches him and doesn't seem to want to let go.

Tommy's first breath is a gasp, the second slower, deeper, the arch of his body less severe as he actually _moves_, rolling up against Adam to hook a leg around the back of Adam's thigh. Lover. Adam called him _lover._ It's hard to believe that the person he's admired for so long, the person he's _wanted_ in deep, dark secrets, is here with him now, doing _this._ Tommy groans against Adam's cheek when he lifts up to kiss him again, and it's a low, shuddering sound. Between them, _yes_, his cock is hard, pressed between them in a slow rhythm as Adam moves.

The shift is slow, but perceptible. When Adam feels Tommy's body welcome him more easily, Adam speeds up gradually, working up on to a hand so that there's space between them to stroke Tommy's cock. Adam's face is flushed, sweat beading at his brow; the ceiling fan doesn't cool the air much. "Yes," he groans, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "Yes."

It has Tommy breathing, oh yes, in shaky gasps, hips moving in counterpoint to Adam's, up into his hand, and down, and from there, it's not long at all before Tommy's own skin is flushed, damp with sweat, feeling his orgasm creep up in pushes and pulls. "Adam? _Ah-_ Adam-" When Tommy comes, he holds on tight, fingers digging into Adam's broad shoulders, legs tight against Adam's hips, body gripped tight in a ripple of muscle around his cock.

"God, yes," Adam breathes out, before letting go of his tight control and moving until he too is coming with something like relief. He pants kisses against Tommy's neck, his jaw, his mouth before he pulls himself free, still lying mostly over Tommy's slight, flushed body, humming out his sated satisfaction.

Tommy lies there with his eyes closed, hands loose on Adam's body; relaxed. "I don't even know how to tell you how that was," he whispers. "It was more than I even thought." He ducks his chin down to catch Adam's mouth, that soft mouth that seems like it was made for kissing, a lover's mouth indeed. After a moment, Adam feels the curve of Tommy's smile against his mouth. "Are we going to be doing this all weekend?"

"Between going swimming? I wouldn't mind. But you'll have to tell me. You might be a tad sore." Grinning, Adam reaches between them, between Tommy's legs to tease at the hole he'd just initiated. "You were _magnificent_."

It makes Tommy jump, knees trying to jerk together, then he lets out an unsteady laugh. "I'm glad. I... just moved the way you made me feel like I should. If that makes any kind of sense." Swimming sounds _so_ good; cool water, privacy, and the chance to come back to the room and do this again. "I'd like to, again. Even if it's a little sore. I liked it, you know, and I'd like to keep doing it."

"Then it seems we're agreed," Adam chuckles before he kisses Tommy again.

~*~

It's a weekend of decadence; good food, drinks, swimming and, of course, debauchery. And when they pull away from the resort, Tommy is tucked up against Adam's side on the bench seat of the Buick. "How do you feel?" Adam murmurs in Tommy's ear under the rush of wind. He doesn't want to go back. He wants to turn the car around, in fact. To hide away. To _be_ with Tommy. But a new movie starts shooting tomorrow; the bit of sun he got over the weekend won't matter in the tones of black and white on the big screen.

"Sore," Tommy smiles. "Tired. Good. Wishing the weekend was longer." Even this now-familiar comfort of sitting up close to Adam - no longer Mr. Lambert, and likely never again that name - seems luxurious, even though the action itself is limited. Very easily, they could be thrown in the slammer for what they've been doing, and that would ruin Adam's career and Tommy's as well, even before it starts. Palm Springs already seems like a sweet dream or a happy ending to a romance movie.

True to that knowledge, the closer they get to Los Angeles, the farther apart they sit in the car, until, when he's dropped off in front of his home, Tommy is sitting well away on the passenger side. Both Adam and Tommy wear sunglasses and Adam's smile, though still warm, is reserved. He aches with longing that Tommy can't see behind his sunglasses. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says quietly, hands tight on the steering wheel to keep from reaching for his lover.

"Tomorrow," Tommy promises, hoping Adam can read more into his tone than mere casuality. "Thanks for taking me on this trip, Mr. Lambert." For propriety's sake. "It was very... it was a learning experience." He gets his bag from the back and only Adam can tell the difference in the set of Tommy's hips as he goes up the stairs to the door of the brownstone he lives in. A flash of a smile, and he goes inside, returning to a real life that seems so very fake.

~*~

"You're very tan," Kat tells Adam as they sit in their respective make-up chairs. "You went away, didn't you. I'm jealous." She holds her cigarette pip away from her body and the make-up artist. "I would love to go away. Where'd you go, anyway, you cad?"

"Palm Springs. Dusty's place. You know." Adam has his chin tilted up, eyes closed, as he's powdered.

"Ah, Dusty ... I miss him too. I really do need to go and soon." Kat's voice dips. "And you had a good time?"

Adam's eyes slit open so he can look at her in the mirror. "Magnificent."

"Ah, good. At least one of us did. You old dog," she adds for argument's sake. "Think of them when you kiss me, then, mm?"

"Incorrigible," Adam laughs. "But I'll do it." Kat's laughter mingles with his, filling the room.

True to his word, the producer has given Tommy a small role in the flick and he and Adam have a scene together, one of the first filmed. On the set, Adam straightens his tie and lapels, giving Tommy a bland smile that doesn't quite mask the heat in his eyes. "Are you ready for your shot at stardom, Mr. Joseph?"

Tommy gives Adam what he hopes is a potential star's smile, not quite as cool as Adam's, but it's fresh and genuine nonetheless. "Yes, Mr. Lambert. And thank you again for giving me a chance." He takes his place on the set, feeling about ten miles beyond nervous to be in front of a camera with Adam, in case whatever it is that's happening between them makes itself known without either of them realizing it.

He delivers his lines along with the briefcase that his role dictates he's to give to Adam, and makes his exit. The director doesn't yell 'cut!' or 'you stink!', so Tommy's cautiously hopeful, watching the rest of the scene being filmed from a chair where the makeup ladies remove his makeup. Adam's... well, he's gorgeous, impeccable, falling easily into this role as he falls into bed with Tommy.

The day passes in a blur of takes and retakes with a break in the middle for lunch, but it's dark outside when cut is called for the day and in the hallway, Adam catches Tommy by the elbow. "I'd like to buy you a drink, Mr. Joseph. If you're free?"

That smile makes its reappearance and Tommy answers, of course, "I'd like that very much. I'd like to talk about the movie, if you'd like." Like, like, like. Tommy _likes_ Adam, this much is plainly obvious. But maybe, at the same time, the part of him that knows the reality of the situation loves him, as well. From a weekend away, Adam caught Tommy's heart.

"Nifty. We'll meet at the club, then?" Not named, but they both know what club Adam refers to. "Give me a half-hour and I'll buy the first round of drinks." And then again, in the backs of Adam's eyes, Tommy can see that warmth. As much as Adam might have caught Tommy's heart, Tommy has a firm grip on Adam's as well.

"You need to be careful," Kat tells him when she touches Adam's elbow. "They've been doing random raids, darling. Have you heard?"

"They have?! Since when?!" Adam feels a dread in his chest. Police raids on underground clubs are not uncommon, and the sordid details are always splashed over the newspapers with pictures.

"They shut down four clubs this weekend while you were away," she answers. "Be careful."

Of all the things they share, Kat and Adam also share an awareness of what is at stake with their sexual proclivities. Adam busses Kat's cheek and goes to the dressing room to change into his own clothes. "I'm always careful, honey. Don't worry. Things will be fine."

It's hard to think of police raids, though, inside the plush quiet of the Red Light, in one of the back rooms, tie on the door as Adam tastes Tommy's mouth. It feels, rather, like they have a cocoon of space that is all theirs.

Adam's done this amazing job of knocking back all of Tommy's inhibitions, and here at the Red Light, they're allowed anonymity to a degree. They're here for the same reasons as all the other men. It's that privacy, that anonymity that they're not allowed outside of places like this. Tommy's hands are secure on Adam's body now, not quite confident yet, but at least _knowing_ where to touch, loving how the back of Adam's neck goes from silky hair to smooth skin, or if he drags his fingertips down Adam's spine, it'll make the other man shiver.

"You were good today," Adam whispers as he peels away Tommy's clothes. "Solid work. Just ... keep doing that." He licks and nips at Tommy's collarbone. "And you'll build a reputation." Which is, they both know, everything in this business. Lying on the bed, a leg between Tommy's, Adam rocks his hips, a hand on Tommy's to urge him to do the same.

"I had three lines," Tommy murmurs, breath catching when his hips move up instinctively. There's nothing that feels like this, he's discovered, nothing that he's been able to compare it to, and somehow, that's okay. It makes this individual, the way he kisses Adam, the way his hips come up against his thigh. The way Tommy finds Adam's skin beneath his clothing as easily as Adam had done the same to him. Between them, his cock feels hard, heavy, and Tommy's kisses are breathless and uneven on Adam's mouth.

"You imply that isn't much," Adam tells him, kissing Tommy's neck through his smile. "You underestimate the power of three lines." Or three minutes, or three days. Reaching over, he fetches the lube from the night stand and slicks his fingers, intent on working Tommy open, when their world explodes.

From beyond their door, they can hear shouting and the clattering of chairs (and people?) against the walls. Without a thought, Adam is up, reaching for clothes, tossing Tommy's at him as he works to pull on his own. "A raid," he hisses. "Move! Fast!"

Tommy moves like lightning, pulling up shorts and trousers, winging his shirt on and fastening it up, shouldering his braces. A raid? A _raid?_ There's nothing _wrong_ happening here, but there is plenty illegal. "Adam?" Tommy questions, eyes locked on the door. "What do we do?"

"Keep your head down. Be quiet." Adam tugs Tommy to him against the wall behind the door. If only the tie weren't on the door, but he can't risk getting it now. They have to hope that the police aren't paying attention, or are too busy in the bar section of the club itself. Everything's at stake. So much. Too much. They should've gone to his home; he was foolish for wanting to come here. All the thoughts run through his head as they wait. And wait. They can still hear the shouting.

Then, most ominously, they hear doors hitting the walls, clearly kicked in. "Keep your head down," Adam whispers again, then moves, larger body shielding Tommy's when the door comes flying in.

Tommy does as he's told, breathing quick and panicked, hands balled into fists at his sides. They weren't doing anything _wrong._ But the eyes of the law see differently than the eyes of lovers, and Tommy knows what the law is, and knows they were breaking it merely by being here.

"Well, well," one of the cops leers, when he sees who's in the room. "Never woulda thought. Hey Joe! Lookit who we've got here... a bonafide movie star. You're under arrest, Mr Lambert. You and your friend can face the wall, hands behind your back." Their rights are read to them and Tommy glances up at Adam for a brief moment, sorrow and anger darkening his eyes. _I'm sorry._

Adam looks away.

~~

_Movie star's sordid habits revealed!_

_Deviant brought to the light!_

_Adam Lambert part of deviant sex club sting!_

In his home in Beverly Hills, Adam tosses aside all the newspapers and looks out the window instead. He's been released on bond pending arraignment, which is attorney is sure they can get dismissed.

What they can't get dismissed is the damage to his career. He's over. Through. And he knows it. There is no place he can show his face now. Quietly, he's decided to leave the state. But to go where? He's lived here all his life. The telephone rings incessantly and he ignores it every time. If his attorney needs to see him, he can come over. Adam pours himself another drink.

Finally, there _is_ a knock at the door, and it _is_ Adam's attorney. And with him is Tommy, dark under the eyes from spending the night in a crowded jail cell. "Adam, we need to talk about the allegations that are put up against you here. And we need to discuss what you're going to do afterward."

All Tommy has to say is a low, "Hi, Adam. Your lawyer sprung me."

Eyes dull, Adam leaves the door open and turns back into the house. He hasn't shaved, though he has showered. Two more drinks are poured. Arthur - his attorney - will decline of course, but Tommy might need one. When those are poured, left on the table for whoever might want them, he sits back into the chair he'd occupied before. "I'm leaving here," he says, looking out the window again. "I'll take my money and leave. Tell them that, Arthur. That they don't need to worry about me smutting up their precious Hollywood. See if that won't make them drop the charges." Belatedly, he looks over at Tommy, and away.

Tommy's looking down at his glass, not knowing what to say at all. He wants to ask _what about me?_ and _can I come with you?_ but doesn't know how to ask in front of Adam's attorney, so he stays silent.

"I'll see what I can manage for you, Adam," Arthur sets his briefcase down on the coffee table and pops it open. "If you agree to leave the city - and possibly the state - then I'm sure the charges will be more lenient. Possibly a fine, but no time served, I can make sure of that. Your, er, friend here doesn't have legal counsel, but since he was arrested in your presence, I could work a similar deal for him, as well."

Adam finally looks over to Tommy, his face a careful mask. "That's fine," he says, as he turns back to Arthur. "Bill me for your hours, Artie. Thank you." He doesn't apologize, though Arthur may expect that. If that's the case, he will be waiting a long time. "I'll begin packing immediately."

"I'll be in touch," Adam's attorney says, and stands to shake Adam's hand. Fruit or not, Adam's one of his highest-paying clients, and in Hollywood, one never looks a gift horse in the mouth. "I'll see myself out. Gentlemen." Arthur makes his way through the house, and there's the sound of the door opening and closing. Tommy doesn't look up.

It's a silence that's icy and hard and takes some time to break before Adam speaks. "I want to be angry at you," he says, quietly. "I want to blame you for what happened. But that's asinine." He gets up from his chair to go to the sliding glass door and look out. "I want to ... I want to be mad at someone. Everything I have is lost."

Adam's words push Tommy to his feet. "Then I'll be on my way, sir. I'm sorry, Mr. Lambert, for being... that you were caught with me." He needs to get home, to shower. To begin to pack, and to tell his mother that he'll be going on a trip, and that he promises to write. "I have a couple hundred in my bank account. I figure that'll be enough for a bus ticket... somewhere. To start over. It was a pleasure working with you, Mr. Lambert." And Tommy follows Arthur's same path to the front door.

"Tommy! Goddamnit! Listen to me!" Being theatrically trained means that Adam's voice carries _very_ far, with a sharpness that can't be denied. Soon, Adam appears in the hallway as well. "I said it was asinine and I realized that you'd lost a great deal as well. I'm being immature and foolish and petty. I have no one to blame but myself. Kat warned me and I didn't listen." Kat, who'd stopped by one night with the makings for martinis. "Where would you go?"

"I'm thinking New Orleans." Tommy's voice is still flat, all carefully-held emotion in the face of Adam's own anger. The unfairness of the situation. "I hear they've got a hot jazz scene there. And it's warm all the time. I could live there, cheap." That wouldn't erase what's on his record, though. Their secrets are out and there's no going back. Can't put toothpaste back in the tube, his mum would say.

"New Orleans." Adam puts his hands in his pockets. "... I've never been. Come back. Finish your drink."

Tommy hesitates for just a moment before turing around and coming back to the livingroom where his drink is. "I need to clean up, Adam. I've been in a cell." He pauses, chewing on his lower lip. "You sure do have a nice place." The place that Adam will be leaving, just as Tommy will be leaving his own tiny apartment. "You could come with me, if you want. You could sing."

Adam's smile is mirthless and brief. "You can use my bathroom if you want. I have food in the kitchen if you're hungry." New Orleans ... "I'd thought of going where there's water, actually. I hear it gets hot and steamy in Louisiana in the summer." There's a quiet moment, then Adam says, "I'm sorry, Tommy. For what you've lost."

"Not nearly as much as you." Tommy shakes his head and takes a drink out of the glass. Then he's patting his pockets for cigarettes before realizing those, and his lighter, had been confiscated at the police station. Along with his wallet, returned empty. "I hear that San Fran's a little more... tolerant, I guess? And you'd still be near the water."

Picking up the pack of cigarettes from the side table and his lighter, Adam fishes one out for Tommy, handing it over, the flicking open his lighter. "I was thinking of Carmel, actually. Outside of San Francisco, along the water's edge." But there's nothing there for a musician, is there? Should that matter? He doesn't know.

Tommy takes a long, grateful drag of the cigarette, exhaling just as slowly. Adam and his silk cut cigarettes. It steadies his nerves just a little, and gives Tommy the courage to look Adam in the eyes. "I know how I feel about you. I know how you make me feel. I'd like to come with you, if you'd have me." Once Adam's attorney gets their legal problems resolved. If there's no work in Carmel for a musician, well, he'll find something else to do. In New York, he'd bussed tables while going to Juilliard. Music isn't everything.

But something in Tommy's chest drops when he thinks that. _Music isn't everything._

"Oh, Tommy." For a moment, Adam looks ineffably sad, but he walks over to Tommy, putting an arm around his shoulders. "What would be there for you?" Besides Adam. The disgraced former film star, whose reputation will follow him wherever he goes. "You should play your music."

"And who would want a queer in their band?" Tommy answers, Adam's sadness echoed in Tommy's tone and his smile. "I can't stay here either. And I don't want to go to New Orleans without you. Call me a romantic, but you got a guy who fell for you, pretty hard." He rests his head on Adam's shoulder. "Now, I'd really like to get cleaned up, if you don't mind."

"The bathroom's off the bedroom. There's everything there you might need." Adam ghosts a hand along the back of Tommy's neck before letting him go. But while Tommy's down the hall, he thinks and he thinks deeply, brow furrowed in concentration.

When Tommy reappears, Adam is smoking, sitting in the chair again, one leg crossed over the other, and he says, with a small smile, "We'll go to New York City."

They can get lost there. Tommy can play his music. Adam can work, if he needs to (thankfully, he's got money saved up, a great deal of it). It will get cold in the winter, but that in and of itself is a novelty.

Tommy's wearing nothing but a towel around his hips, his clothes in no condition to put back on after he's showered. "You'll love it," he smiles. "It's fast and it's furious and there's no pretense. Not like here." Just as in the club, Tommy takes Adam's wrist and brings his hand up, taking a drag off of that cigarette, Tommy's lips touching Adam's fingers. "I have friends there."

"You should have said so." Adam's fingers graze Tommy's cheek.

~*~

Four months later, Adam stands looking out the window. From here, they can see Fifth Avenue, the park and the water beyond. The smell of fresh paint still lingers in the air, a crisp white. A clean start. He loosens his tie as he pulls out two cigarettes and lights them. "The sun is setting, lover," he calls. "Come look."

Tommy joins Adam where he's standing, wiping his hands on his hips. The skyscrapers, as always, stun him, along with how _busy_ the streets always are. But they're here, and he's got his space for his bass and an acoustic guitar he's brought with him, while Adam seems to have taken care of the rest. Tommy still relishes the fact that Adam calls him 'lover', something personal and fundamentally wonderful. The day after tomorrow, he's got an audition with a house band to play, of all things, trumpet. Perhaps New York is the place to start over. "It's amazing. Thank you. For wanting me to come with you."

Instead of answering with words, Adam urges Tommy's chin up and leans down to kiss him. It was meant onto be a brief kiss, a taste. But that taste is addictive and he goes back for more, cigarette smoldering between his fingers as he loops both arms around the smaller man. "They say that in adversity, we learn the most about ourselves." And what he's learned is that he loves Tommy.

"You'll like it here," Tommy smiles, and it's an easier smile than most of the ones that Adam's seen out of him before. It's calmer, more assured. He knows New York, and knows how anyone can be anonymous here. They can _be_ who they are and have no one know the wiser. Because they have a _home._ Tommy gets up on his toes, pressing his mouth to Adam's again. Because he _can._

How things change. It doesn't escape Adam that roles have shifted. When they met, Adam was the expert, the one who could make things happen. Here, Tommy is the one who knows people and things. It will take some time to get used to that. People will ask, _What happened to Adam Lambert?_ and someone will say _he just disappeared_.

Adam kisses Tommy again.


End file.
